“So long as you are rich! Ah! my friend! ’tis not civil war that disunites us. It is that we are each of us twenty years older; it is that the honest emotions of youth have given place to suggestions of interest, whispers of ambition, counsels of selfishness. Yes, you are right; let us go, Porthos, but let us go well armed; were we not to keep the rendezvous, they would declare we were afraid. Halloo! Planchet! here! saddle our horses, take your carbine.”
“Whom are we going to attack, sir?”
“No one; a mere matter of precaution,” answered the Gascon.
“You know, sir, that they wished to murder that good councillor, Broussel, the father of the people?”
“Really, did they?” said d’Artagnan.
“Yes, but he has been avenged. He was carried home in the arms of the people. His house has been full ever since. He has received visits from the coadjutor, from Madame de Longueville, and the Prince de Conti; Madame de Chevreuse and Madame de Vendôme have left their names at his door. And now, whenever he wishes—”
“Well, whenever he wishes?”
Planchet began to sing:
“Un vent de fronde
S’est levé ce matin;
Je crois qu’il gronde
Contre le Mazarin.
Un vent de fronde
S’est levé ce matin.”
“It doesn’t surprise me,” said d’Artagnan, in a low tone to Porthos, “that Mazarin would have been much better satisfied had I crushed the life out of his councillor.”
“You understand, then, Monsieur,” resumed Planchet, “that if it were for some enterprise like that undertaken against Monsieur Broussel that you should ask me to take my carbine—”
“No, don’t be alarmed; but where did you get all these details?”
“From a good source, sir; I heard it from Friquet.”
“From Friquet? I know that name—”
“A son of Monsieur de Broussel’s servant, and a lad that, I promise you, in a revolt will not give away his share to the dogs.”
“Is he not a singing boy at Notre Dame?” asked d’Artagnan.
“Yes, that is the very boy; he’s patronized by Bazin.”
“Ah, yes, I know.”
“Of what importance is this little reptile to you?” asked Porthos.
“Gad!” replied d’Artagnan; “he has already given me good information and he may do the same again.”
Whilst all this was going on, Athos and Aramis were entering Paris by the Faubourg St. Antoine. They had taken some refreshment on the road and hastened on, that they might not fail at the appointed place. Bazin was their only attendant, for Grimaud had stayed behind to take care of Mousqueton. As they were passing onward, Athos proposed that they should lay aside their arms and military costume, and assume a dress more suited to the city.
“Oh, no, dear count!” cried Aramis, “is it not a warlike encounter that we are going to?”
“What do you mean, Aramis?”
“That the Place Royale is the termination to the main road to Vendomois, and nothing else.”
“What! our friends?”
“Are become our most dangerous enemies, Athos. Let us be on our guard.”
“Oh! my dear d’Herblay!”
“Who can say whether d’Artagnan may not have betrayed us to the cardinal? who can tell whether Mazarin may not take advantage of this rendezvous to seize us?”
“What! Aramis, you think that d’Artagnan, that Porthos, would lend their hands to such an infamy?”
“Among friends, my dear Athos, no, you are right; but among enemies it would be only a stratagem.”
Athos crossed his arms and bowed his noble head.
“What can you expect, Athos? Men are so made; and we are not always twenty years old. We have cruelly wounded, as you know, that personal pride by which d’Artagnan is blindly governed. He has been beaten. Did you not observe his despair on the journey? As to Porthos, his barony was perhaps dependent on that affair. Well, he found us on his road and will not be baron this time. Perhaps that famous barony will have something to do with our interview this evening. Let us take our precautions, Athos.”
“But suppose they come unarmed? What a disgrace to us.”
“Oh, never fear! besides, if they do, we can easily make an excuse; we came straight off a journey and are insurgents, too.”
“An excuse for us! to meet d’Artagnan with a false excuse! to have to make a false excuse to Porthos! Oh, Aramis!” continued Athos, shaking his head mournfully, “upon my soul, you make me the most miserable of men; you disenchant a heart not wholly dead to friendship. Go in whatever guise you choose; for my part, I shall go unarmed.”
“No, for I will not allow you to do so. ’Tis not one man, not Athos only, not the Comte de la Fère whom you will ruin by this amiable weakness, but a whole party to whom you belong and who depend upon you.”
“Be it so then,” replied Athos, sorrowfully.
And they pursued their road in mournful silence.
Scarcely had they reached by the Rue de la Mule the iron gate of the Place Royale, when they perceived three cavaliers, d’Artagnan, Porthos, and Planchet, the two former wrapped up in their military cloaks under which their swords were hidden, and Planchet, his musket by his side. They were waiting at the entrance of the Rue Sainte Catharine, and their horses were fastened to the rings of the arcade. Athos, therefore, commanded Bazin to fasten up his horse and that of Aramis in the same manner.
They then advanced two and two, and saluted each other politely.
“Now where will it be agreeable to you that we hold our conference?” inquired Aramis, perceiving that people were stopping to look at them, supposing that they were going to engage in one of those far-famed duels still extant in the memory of the Parisians, and especially the inhabitants of the Place Royale.
“The gate is shut,” said Aramis, “but if these gentlemen like a cool retreat under the trees, and perfect seclusion, I will get the key from the Hôtel de Rohan and we shall be well suited.”
D’Artagnan darted a look into the obscurity of the Place. Porthos
